Monday, October 07, 2013

Like Swifts, the Words Return

To my father, after his stroke.

They blacken the autumn sky over Chapman. A cloud,
a perfect storm of wings. Swirling, random chaos
to the human eye. And yet,
some air-traffic control algorithm is in place, prevents collisions,
some queueing theorem detaches them one by one,
drops each down the chimney to its designated perch.
Even the fire this year did not deter them. By nightfall
each is safe,
each is home.

This is how words return to you
from the whirling dark. Called from chaos
one by one, slotting into well-remembered niches.
Like these I hold cupped in my hands,
dagger-tipped wings quivering against my palms, scratch of tiny claws,
racing of hearts built for flight. I release them
and lose them at once in that sea of fantastic motion.
But I’m not worried.
They flew from you to me so long ago
and now return, like Chapman’s swifts.
I know they’ll find the way home.

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1 comment:

Jesus Gonzalez said...

nice, I like this